Valley of the Gun (9781101607480) by Ralph W. Cotton Read Free Book Online Page A

president from Goble, as once again he and the riders around him jerked their horses to a halt. “What does he think we’re going to do, ride up there and stomp these horses all around so he can’t see the prints?”
    Beside him, the sheriff of Goble, Fred Hall, let out an exasperated breath. He looked at Stone, then at Sheriff Clayton DeShay, who had thrown in with the posse as it came through Whiskey Bend.
    â€œI have to say I don’t understand Dee’s reasoning myself, but he’s known for his tracking skills—and he is part Indian.”
    â€œPart Indian indeed,” Stone grumbled. “He’s an idiot. There is no rationale to us having to ride so far behind, and keep stopping every time it strikes his fancy. What possible purpose does it serve?”
    â€œI agree this is taking too damn long. I’m going up to talk to him,” said Sheriff Hall. “But you and Sheriff DeShay hold everybody back until I hear what he has to say.”
    â€œWe don’t need to be
held back
like we’re a bunch of damned fools, Sheriff,” said a black teamster named Morgan Almond, one of the riders crowded up around the banker.
    Almond spit and ran a hand across his dust-caked lips. “You need to knock Ragland in the head so’s we can ride on and catch these robbers. If we’re not going to catch them, I’d as soon go back to Whiskey Bend and load my wagon.”
    â€œHe’s got a point, Sheriff,” said a well-known hired gunman named Arlis Fletcher. “Speaking strictly for myself, I had no money in that bank. I’d like to either get on with this or go home.” The gunman wore a bearskin coat in spite of the warming day. A dusty black derby perched jauntily to one side of his head. A brace of holstered Colts rested on his hips. He gave a flat smile beneath a fine-trimmed mustache and patted the chest of his thick coat. “Fact is, I’m near out of rye.”
    Sheriff Hall looked at the men, then at DeShay. The posse was getting edgy. It wouldn’t last much longer.
    â€œEverybody settle down. I’ll be right back,” he said, turning his horse forward and riding away toward the trail scout. As he approached Ragland, the scout waved his hand back and forth furiously, trying to stop him. But Sheriff Hall rode on.
    â€œDamn it, Sheriff, stay back!” said Ragland as Hall slid his horse to a halt a few feet away. “I can’t have these prints disturbed, not if I’m going to be able to figure anything out about them.”
    â€œAw, hell, Ragland,” the sheriff said in disgust, “why all this stopping and starting? What is it you’re finding out anyway that’s so damned helpful?”
    Ragland held a hand up toward him with a scorching stare.
    â€œWe’ve got six riders, Sheriff,” he said. “And following those six, we’ve one rider alone—I’m supposing that to be Ranger Burrack.”
    Looking down at the mass of hoofprints in the dirt, Sheriff Hall shook his head as if not believing the scout.
    â€œHow the hell can you read that one rider is following six others in a mess of prints such as this?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s not hard if I can keep you and those knotheads far enough back,” Ragland said.
    â€œWatch your mouth, Ragland,” Hall warned.
    Ragland ignored the sheriff’s caution, pointing down at the tangle of prints in the dirt.
    â€œSee how this one set of prints laps over the others?” he said.
    â€œDamn it, Ragland, of course one set is always going to overlap. That doesn’t tell you nothing,” said Hall.
    â€œNot from here,” Ragland said. “But look back between here and the posse. See how that one set of prints stays on top, forms its own trail if you stare at them close enough?”
    Hall squinted and stared back along the trail toward the waiting riders. After a moment, he made out a line of ghostlike prints